


a love poem

by whataboutpierre (sunflowerwithfeelings)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunk Enjolras, Fluff, Grantaire & Jean Prouvaire Friendship, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier Friendship, M/M, Modern Era, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 21:53:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11769132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerwithfeelings/pseuds/whataboutpierre
Summary: Grantaire had said he'd host a poetry slam that Jehan’s poetry company was performing, with the promise of an awesome bartender and free-drinks. He didn't have time to process whether that was a bad idea or not. But Jehan seemed excited.-Enjolras had only ever been drunk a handful of times and his drunken personality, no matter how serious his actual self was, was always just like that of any drunk college girl ever.





	a love poem

Grantaire was being pushed up against the grey walls of the backstage, Enjolras breathing heavily onto him. Grantaire almost thought to smile, when he smelled it fuming from Enjolras mouth. He thought himself already slightly buzzed, but he could practically taste the alcohol on Enjolras’ breath. This was not right.

“Kiss me,” Enjolras whispered as his nose pressed into Grantaire’s cheek.

This was _definitely_ not right.

 

**+**

 

It was snowing outside. But not the pretty, white snow people normally think of when they think winter. The fuzzy, frozen mess was packed against the sides of the icy road, mixed with dirt and grime, turning it into an ugly sludge. The sun was tucked behind thick clouds; the only things lighting the road were street lamps and the glow from buildings still open. 

Jehan had just given Grantaire a run-down of what he was supposed to say on-stage and walked away to go greet people coming inside from the cold. Grantaire had said he'd host a poetry slam that Jehan’s poetry company was performing, with the promise of an awesome bartender and free-drinks. He didn't have time to process whether that was a bad idea or not. But Jehan seemed excited.

They were at a small venue, the building right across from a library, so students, mostly english majors, floated in through the glass double doors and took seats at booths and tables scattered across the floor.

He heard a couple voices from the front door call his name; Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Éponine, Musichetta, Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly, and Bahorel were there, being escorted by Jehan to a wide booth in the back. Grantaire’s heart dropped slightly in his chest when he realized the group was short one short, radical, blonde-hair liberal--but he probably had better things to do tonight. Probably up in his apartment reading and re-reading papers his students has submitted a month ago or going over numbers for the group’s next rally. Whatever it was, he wasn’t there and somehow another drink ended up in Grantaire’s hand.

When it seemed like everyone was settled, Jehan talked to a guy who was manning a camera in the back. Why was that there? He’d make sure to ask if Jehan ever made their way back over to the side of the stage before it was time to start.

Someone else decorated in the same black and red shirt as Jehan came over to Grantaire, handing him a clipboard.

“These are the poets and the order they’ll go in. I’m sure Jehan told you about the small announcements you’ll have to make while the judges decide on their final score--oh and don’t forget to say hello to the people watching the livestream.”

“I’m sorry--that what?”

“You’re on,” they said, pushing Grantaire up a step and disappearing behind a table in the back that housed all the merchandise and poetry books for sale.

The first thought to cross Grantaire’s mind as he stepped on stage was: _holy fuck these lights are hot._

The second thought to cross Grantaire’s mind as he stepped on stage, walking up to the microphone was: _holy fuck I cannot see anyone._

“Hello, my name is Grantaire and welcome to the poetry slam,” He raised his hand to his brow, people’s heads now becoming visible in the stream of bright light. Éponine cheered loudly from the back, getting a couple weird looks from people around her but Grantaire knew she didn’t give a fuck. A couple ‘hoots’ from people he assumed as regulars erupted from the front. He felt better about being onstage, not that he had stage fright or anything. It was just cool to be validated. “This is the first time I’ve done this so bare with me here!”

He looked back down at the clipboard, removing his hand to flip a piece of paper up. “We have eight poets tonight and a total of three rounds. Every poet has a time-limit, judges you don’t have to worry about that. Speaking of judges, Judges! Where are you?” He dropped the page to put his hand to his head again. Slowly, five whiteboards were raised over the sea of tables. Grantaire almost laughed when Courfeyrac held up his like he was a senior citizen and it was the winning bingo card.

“You will have a total of...not-that-much-time to show your scores. I do not apologize, they told me to be fast. It’s on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being the worst thing you’ve ever heard and a 10 being something that just made you _feeeeeel_ something. Use up to one decimal point. Feel free to snap, cheer, or clap at something the poet says if it really resonates with you. Just--don’t be an asshole about it.”

He blabbed on for a couple more minutes and cracked a few jokes, making the audience hyped for what they were about to hear, because apparently poetry slams aren’t boring like you’d think, according to Jehan. Grantaire made sure to look the camera dead in its glass eye and say ‘hello’ to the ‘livestream people’. He read off the names of the poets in the order they were going in, although after every poem he’d go back onstage and take scores as well as say who was going next. 

When he left the stage and the first poet of the night started performing, he looked over at the booth where his friends sat and noticed, in fact, Enjolras sitting next to them. Or kind of. He made sure to put a conscious gap between him and Joly for reasons unknown to Grantaire.

He watched from the side of the stage, the only light in the entire venue being the deathly lasers onstage and what calm blue lights that had illuminated the bar. Jehan told him not to get too intoxicated in the beginning, but Grantaire could hold his alcohol.

In between the fourth and fifth poet, Jehan walked over to Grantaire.

“The livestream seems to like you. We might have to use you again,” They whispered, pinching Grantaire’s arm.

“At least someone does. These things usually this exciting?” He asked as the audience snapped, clapped, and groaned at a line the poet onstage had just said. 

“Once, we had one of our more popular poets bring a scroll onto the stage and list off all the problematic things with America. The people online went nuts and the physical audience just the same. I’ve never seen that many people excited about poetry.” Jehan smiled, Grantaire could tell that at that moment they were at complete peace. They smirked and looked up at Grantaire, “but. The best part about any poetry slam? Right after the poet says the last line and backs away from the mic, the first clap or cheer from the audience is magical. Listen for it. Once you hear it, you’ll fall in love with it.” 

Grantaire nodded his head and took Jehan’s advice. Just because they seemed too genuine and Grantaire needed a little magic every now and again.

The poet onstage was still going, something he felt bad for missing most of. She stood onstage, looking out into the audience as she spoke what felt like the last line. It sounded like something hard-hitting, like it’d seep into your soul and turn you into a believer. 

And that’s when Grantaire heard it.

“Yes!” was exclaimed from the back of the venue, Grantaire’s head turning to see Enjolras with his face like a candle and his arm held high in their air as if grabbing for something. Grantaire considered from that moment on, anything Jehan said was a prophecy. Whole absolute truth. How right they were. 

There was a quick roar of applause and it took him a while to move his feet, they felt cemented to the carpeted floor. It took everything in him not to smile like a goofball as he walked back onto the stage. He brought his face near the mic, his eyes suddenly remembering they could not see with the stage lights. That would take some heavily getting-used-to.

“Alright, alright, alright. Judges, you get a little more time because I have an announcement. After this round, our feature poet will come up and perform a little something from their book, they’ll be selling them at the back.” He looked at Jehan, who was now at the side of the stage, and gave a nod to them.

“Judges! Scores in 3, 2, 1. Hold ‘em up.” Grantaire looked out into the audience, making sure all five whiteboards were up before he read off the scores. “Okay, from low to high we have an 8.2-”

The audience, including a very vocal Enjolras, gave a heavy ‘boo’. Grantaire smirked and continued on.

“An 8.7. Another 8.7. A 9.1. A 9.2 and a 9.5.”

The 9.5 came from the Les Amis’ table, something telling Grantaire that Enjolras had some heavy influence on that score. He probably wanted to give it a 10 but Courfeyrac had most likely talked him down to a 9.5.

“Applaud the poet, fuck the scores.” He cheered, that was the first thing that came to his head. The crowd in front of him cheered and laughed, Jehan gave an approving nod from the side stage. It’d been adapted as the night’s new motto from that point on.

Grantaire saw Combeferre get up once to go order something from the bar, a scattered stack of mugs and glasses already on the table to begin with. 

Enjolras was no longer an ‘outsider’, as outsider as he could be in their group. He was squished in between Bossuet and Courfeyrac, red-cheeked and smiling, god only knows how Combeferre was going to sit down. But then again, personal space wasn't a very big deal with them, Grantaire included. He'd find himself glued side to side with Bahorel or sprawled across Courfeyrac’s lap. Éponine would wiggle between his legs because he liked to braid her hair and she liked having her hair played with. He gave a shoulder massage to Enjolras, once.

The night continued on, Grantaire’s vision starting to soften around the edges. His chest was patchy red. His legs grew to that ever-so comforting feeling of tiny weights being tied onto him by loose ribbon. His elbows just the same. He wasn’t slurring words or losing his balance and, if anything, was just as equally alert as he was completely sober. The audience, however, that was a different story.

The scores stayed pretty consistent with how they were before, one always significantly lower than the others, one significantly higher. Whether the higher one belonged to the Les Amis’ table, only Grantaire would know. But the vocality of the audience as a whole grew. More smiles bloomed on faces. More snaps from the back. More cheers and ‘fuck it ups!’ from the front.

The feature poet performed and then it was intermission, giving Grantaire a break from constantly being up and off stage every 3 to 4 minutes.

He got a water from the bar, best not to get so drunk that he ends up passing out somewhere between the venue and his apartment, then walked back to where his friends were. Joly smiled up at home and scooted over, one of his legs hooking overtop of Bossuet so Grantaire didn't have to hang off of the edge of the booth.

“You're hilarious,” Enjolras blurted as soon as he sat down and surveyed the table.

“That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me,” Grantaire bloomed.

Enjolras frowned,“Yeah right-”

“Who do you think is gonna win?” Bahorel butted in before Enjolras could stick his hand up and protest. 

Grantaire shook his head and shrugged. He was told very little and hand to improvise the rest. He was quick on his feet, maybe one of the reasons Jehan asked him to do this. Just imagining Enjolras trying to quickly throw a talking point up into the air long enough for judges to decide on a score wasn't something Grantaire could imagine him doing. He'd throw himself into a rant about the poem and the crew might have had to drag him off stage just to keep the show continuing. 

When it came time to have a winner for the slam, the girl who Éponine seemed to be making eyes with won. Grantaire wouldn’t be surprised if they went home together, but he didn’t get the chance to see that. After he walked on stage as the people in the back calculated the math, and he read aloud the winner of the slam, he was dragged off to the side by Jehan’s arms, wrapping around him to give him a hug.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! Tonight was a huge success, promise you’ll do the one next month or the month after that or-”

“Sure thing kid,” Grantaire smiled and rubbed the top of Jehan’s shoulder.

“Great,” Jehan looked over and saw Courfeyrac, hand on the handle of the glass doors in the front and a smile painted on his cheeks. Jehan blushed. “Well, I’ll see you around R.”

Jehan skipped off, leaving Grantaire smiling. Courfeyrac was the last out of the door, or at least as far as Grantaire knew, and now the only people left in the building were either crew from the poetry company or a few stragglers who were waiting for their ride home and didn’t dare venture out into the cold, death-trap night.

With the help of what was left of a very tired staff, Grantaire found his way to the back and found the bathroom, doing his business and washing his hands, walking back out. They had no paper towels, so he used the bottom of his flannel as one. It was just water.

Then suddenly, Grantaire was being pushed up against the grey walls of the backstage, Enjolras breathing heavily onto him. Grantaire almost thought to smile, when he smelled it fuming from Enjolras mouth. He thought himself already slightly buzzed, but he could practically taste the alcohol on Enjolras’ breath. This was not right.

“Kiss me,” Enjolras whispered as his nose pressed into Grantaire’s cheek.

This was _definitely_ not right.

“Enjolras, you’re drunk.” Grantaire stated as if it wasn’t obvious that both of them knew.

“So what if I am?” Enjolras raised his eyebrow. Hot breath still steaming down Grantaire's neck as Enjolras nuzzled closer.

Grantaire swallowed. As appealing and utterly fantastic as it was to have his Apollo all over him, this wasn’t right. Enjolras had only ever been drunk a handful of times and his drunken personality, no matter how serious his actual self was, was always just like that of any drunk college girl ever. Grantaire could see the smirk starting to form on Enjolras’ face, the one that made him weak in the knees. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Yes I do-”

“Okay,” Grantaire agreed. “My apartment isn’t too far from here. If we make it there and you still want to make this mistake, then we can do this.” Enjolras pouted and tried to protest but Grantaire stopped him. “Deal?”

“Deal.” Enjolras sighed, dragging out the ending of the word like a child. 

And sure enough as the two of them got to Grantaire’s apartment, Enjolras did exactly what Grantaire expected him to do. Fall flat asleep on his bed. Face first actually.

Grantaire smiled and let out a soft chuckle before discarding Enjolras’ shoes on the floor and tucking him underneath his sheets. Jeans weren’t exactly comfortable to sleep in, but Grantaire didn’t want to take that up with future, sober Enjolras. He propped his head up on a pillow in case he needed to vomit during the rest of the night, a trashcan next to his bedside. 

Before throwing himself onto his couch with a blanket and pillow, Grantaire set a glass of water on his nightstand. He smiled down at Enjolras. Even passed out drunk, he looked like a angel.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire was awoken by the sun blasting into his face like an early morning ‘fuck-you’. In his bedroom, he had those black-out curtains that permit any unwanted light from slipping through. But here in the living room he was witness to the deathly waves. He groaned and sat up.

Enjolras wasn’t awake, or if he was, he’d already left and didn’t bother saying a word to Grantaire. But when he checked his room, Enjolras was still sleeping there, rolled over onto his chest, his arm poking out from behind him.

Grantaire laughed and walked back into the living room. He took a look at the apartment for the first time since the slam and decided it was too much of a mess. Grantaire didn't mind the mess, he wasn't a neat freak, clearly. But he still didn't like it when people saw his apartment in its usual, messy state. After he managed to stuff as much trash as he could into the trash can, he made breakfast.

Lord knows, he isn’t the best chef ever, but he’s had enough hangovers in his life to know what tastes good when you’re on one. Also, knowing Enjolras and his habits, a cup of coffee would be the first thing his taste buds craved.

Grantaire was mid-way through making an omelet when he heard footsteps creeping up from the hallway. He turned and saw Enjolras, his hair looked like he’d combed his fingers through it once, his clothes very wrinkled, but his light-brown skin still glowing as bright as ever. Maybe a little more now that he was bathed in sunlight. 

“Hey,” he croaked. 

Grantaire smiled and used the end of his spatula as a pointer to show Enjolras the fresh cup of coffee he had poured for him. Enjolras sighed with relief, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile. 

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

There was a small dip in talking as Enjolras sipped his coffee, Grantaire didn’t own many expensive things but he did pride himself in his wonderful coffee machine. 

“R?” 

“Mmm?” Grantaire stood with his back facing Enjolras as he flipped the eggs over, reaching for a plate.

“Can we talk...about last night?” Grantaire knew that this subject was unavoidable, not that he desperately wanted to avoid it or anything. It’s just his feelings were never something he talked about explicitly with anyone except for maybe Éponine when they were both drunk or high off their asses and she needed something to laugh at.

“Sure.”

“I knew what I was doing...it’s not like I wasn’t me. And I remember everything pretty clearly.” Grantaire didn’t want to look Enjolras in the eyes for some reason so when he handed him the plate of food, he looked at the counter before turning back around and getting bread for the toaster. “What did you mean by ‘make this mistake’? Do you think I don’t like you or something?”

“I just-" 

“Do you not like me?” Enjolras asked, getting Grantaire’s attention.

He looked back up at Enjolras and shook his head. “No, no, it’s not that. I like you a lot, I just don’t want to ruin whatever friendship we have, if you even think it’s friendship. Plus you were drunk, I didn’t want to do anything both of us would regret.”

Enjolras clamped his mouth shut like he had to stop whatever he was going to say, swallowing back words and thinking over Grantaire’s response.

“So you like me?” 

The pin Grantaire had been holding in his hand for what seemed like forever finally dropped. All the late nights staying up with Éponine talking about the curve of Enjolras’ lips or the way he turned scarlet in one of their arguments. All the times Courfeyrac caught him staring at Enjolras during a meeting. All the love poems he heard last night that made him turn his attention from onstage to the booth in the back. All of it had come to this. This moment. 

He huffed like it wasn’t a big deal, naturally, and turned to put the bread into the toaster. He felt like he was back in high school with this whole 'i like you, you like me' thing. “A little understatement, but yeah.”

No point in lying now. If Enjolras didn’t want to do anything with Grantaire’s feelings, he could use this rejection as closure and eventually move on, although he could hardly see himself ‘moving on’ over Enjolras when they weren't even d- 

“Then before we ‘do anything both of us would regret’, will you go out with me?”

It took a while for the words to register in Grantaire’s head. He pressed down on the toasters handle with the pad of his pointer finger. It was real. It was a thick, black plastic. He set his hand on the counter. It was real. It was a cold-to-the-touch marble.

He didn’t care how hot his face felt when he looked over to Enjolras, who was also blushing like a furnace.

“You serious?”

Without missing a beat, Enjolras nodded his head. “Absolutely.”

Grantaire stood, almost frozen in time, but felt himself nod a ‘yes’ to Enjolras before turning back around to face the counter. He felt it again.

It was real.

Just as real as the sudden arms wrapping around his waist, another body pressing into his back. He could feel Enjolras smile into his right shoulder blade and press a soft kiss through the thin cotton material. He could do that now. He was his boyfriend. Which meant that Grantaire could do that _same thing_.

He turned in Enjolras’ hold, their faces now very close together. Grantaire could see up close that Enjolras’ eyes were not just one solid blue as he previously thought but instead, many shades of it. He swore he could see small streaks of gold. An entire galaxy could be nestled into Enjolras’ irises and Grantaire wouldn’t be surprised. Enjolras leaned up, himself the shorter out of the two, and their lips ghosted passed each other. Grantaire licked his bottom lip and decided _fuck it! Just go for it._

Their lips slowly pressed into each other, the sensation of kissing Enjolras was completely riveting even if it was just barely. But soon, Grantaire tongue dared to venture out and when it got ahold of the inside of Enjolras’ mouth, he almost collapsed against the marble countertop. Enjolras smiled into the kiss as the palm of his left hand settled on the small of Grantaire’s back. This angle helped a lot more with kissing Enjolras. _Kissing Enjolras._ The taste of Enjolras was better than any drug Grantaire had ever had, mixed with the bitter taste of coffee. Nothing could ever come close to this.

Both of them were so caught up in the moment, and in each other, the sound of the toast shooting up from the toaster scared both of them, making them jump back dramatically. Grantaire sucking in a sharp breath of air.

Grantaire looked at Enjolras and started to laugh. The latter joining him and soon they were both howling, gasping for air with their chests heaving. Enjolras’ laugh was something Grantaire could record and listen to on loop forever.

When the laughing fit subsided, Enjolras pulled Grantaire into another kiss, both being fairly rosey in the face, and gently seduced him out of the kitchen. 

“Can I still take you up on that deal from last night?” He ran his hands through the back of Grantaire’s scalp. Another one fumbling with the top of his shirt. He bit his bottom lip and looked up at Grantaire through his long lashes.

Grantaire’s eyes lit up as he tugged Enjolras the rest of the way to his bedroom down the hall.

 

**Author's Note:**

> \--------------------  
> Links!:  
> If you're wondering about that poem Jehan mentioned earlier, yes its real. It is [very](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tSosytpkpjo) real and one of the best things I've ever seen. Great to watch whilst drunk!
> 
> If you like what you read and want to watch something like this but with real, actual, poets, hit [this](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC5DH3eN81b0RGJ7Xj3fsjVg) poetry company up. They do a livestream the first Monday of every month and definitely worth the watch. I make space in my schedule for it because I can't live in Minnesota. 
> 
> You can find me [here](http://queersunflowers.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Kudos and Comments are much appreciated.


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